


All of Your Flaws and All of My Flaws, They Lie There Hand in Hand

by jacksonstilinskis



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Developing Relationship, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Phone Calls & Telephones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-13
Updated: 2014-11-13
Packaged: 2018-02-25 06:39:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2612042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacksonstilinskis/pseuds/jacksonstilinskis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"There is literally no one that actually enjoys doing laundry in the middle of the night other than you."</em>
</p>
<p>"Met doing laundry at 2 AM" AU. Written for <a href="http://stilinskiwhittemores.tumblr.com/tagged/stackson-week">Stackson Week</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All of Your Flaws and All of My Flaws, They Lie There Hand in Hand

Jackson still hasn’t gotten the hang of doing his own laundry.

It’s not his fault, okay? He’s had people for that for as long as he can remember. He’s used to his clothes just reappearing in his closet, nice and clean and with no effort on his part.

Which is why once he starts college, he has a tendency to forget that his clothes need to be washed until right before he goes to bed on Sunday nights, and he ends up in the laundry room at 2:00 AM.

The first few times it happens, he moans and groans about it and tries to get his roommate to go and do it for him (to no avail, of course), but he actually ends up kind of enjoying it. There’s no one else there, so it’s nice and quiet, and his first Monday class isn’t until 10:00, so he doesn’t have to worry about getting up too early, and after awhile he actually finds himself looking forward to the peaceful solitude of the laundry room every week. 

One night, he’s sitting on top of one of the washers, humming along to the music he has playing from his phone, when some guy walks in. He looks wrecked; his eyes are bloodshot with insane dark circles underneath them, his hair’s a mess, and he’s only wearing one sock.

For a second Jackson just stares at him, frozen in surprise at another human being actually being here, but then he blinks and clears his throat.

"Sorry, dude," he says, reaching for his phone to turn off the music. "I’m used to…there’s not normally anyone else in here."

"No, leave it on, don’t worry about it," the guy tells him. "It’ll help keep me awake. If it was completely silent in here I’d probably be out cold on the floor in a matter of minutes."

Jackson shrugs and puts his phone back down. “Seems like a strange time to do laundry, considering how tired you are.”

"Believe me, this was not the plan," the guy says, shaking his head. "I was in bed at 10:00, but then my dear roommate and his girlfriend got back from their date and they literally woke me up and dragged me out of bed just to sexile me." 

"Ouch," Jackson says, giving him a sympathetic look. 

"Yeah," the guy agrees solemnly. "I love Scott, and Kira too, really, but sometimes I swear I could kill them both," he says, rubbing a hand across his face. 

Jackson snorts.

"Anyway," the guy goes on, "enough about me and my ridiculous life. When I came in you said there’s usually no one in here, so. Is this your prime laundry time? Are you always in here this late?"

"Pretty much," Jackson says with a nod. "I like the atmosphere when I’m in here alone. It’s peaceful."

The guy nods. “I get that. Can’t say the same about myself, though. I’m alone way too often. Scott’s pretty much the only friend I’ve got, and he’s always busy with Kira lately, and I just…the silence drives me insane. Because then it’s just me and my thoughts, you know? And my mind is not the happiest of places by a long shot.”

Then his eyes widen, like he’s just now realizing what he said. “Wow. Uh…that was a bit of an overshare. I normally never…sorry. Fuck, I’m so tired.”

Jackson swallows the strange giddiness he feels at the guy opening up to him. 

"It’s cool," he says with a shrug. "You have to let it out sometimes. And hey, if you’re trying to avoid silence, we can do that."

Jackson reaches for his phone again and turns up the volume until it’s on full blast, then starts singing along obnoxiously to Pompeii. 

The guy smiles at him (and Jackson kind of wishes he could make him smile like that all the time, always) and joins him, singing even more off-key than Jackson, which is saying something.

Jackson’s laundry gets done drying at around the same time the album ends, and once he has all his clothes folded and ready to take back to his room, he hesitates. He doesn’t know why he cares this much, he never cares this much, but he doesn’t want to leave the guy by himself. The silence is deafening.

"Go," the guy tells him after a moment, nodding toward the door. "I’m a big boy, I can take care of myself," he jokes, winking.

Jackson nods. “Later,” he says, grabbing his basket and slowly making his way out of the laundry room.

He forces himself to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach at the thought that he’ll probably never see the guy again, or even learn his name.

 

Next Sunday, though, when he walks into the room the guy’s already there.

When he sees Jackson, his face lights up. “Hey, you.”

"Jackson," Jackson says, not wasting any time this time. 

"Stiles," the guy, _Stiles,_ says, still grinning at Jackson.

"So, Scott and Kira kick you out again?" Jackson asks, dumping his clothes into the washer next to Stiles’.

"Nah," Stiles says, waving a hand. "I just figured you’d be here." 

Jackson can’t help the smile the spreads across his face. “Well, here I am.” 

"I’m not creepy, I swear," Stiles says, holding his hands up. "I just need a tutor, is all, and Scott’s completely useless, and you look like you’re good at math. You’re good at math, right?"

Jackson’s stunned to silence for a minute, because he’s never been told that he looks like anything but an entitled douchebag in his entire lifetime. He is good at math, though. 

He just shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “I guess.”

Stiles beams at Jackson like he’s the greatest thing he’s ever seen. “Perfect! Because I have a calculus exam in the morning, and derivatives are kicking my ass, so how’d you like to be my knight in shining armor?” he asks, waggling his eyebrows.

Jackson snorts, but pulls up a chair next to Stiles. 

It turns out that Stiles really does need a lot of help; they’re there long past when their laundry’s finished. It’s not all boring, though - they talk a lot. About everything. Jackson learns that Stiles’ a Criminal Justice major, that he wants to go into law enforcement because it’s what his dad does and he fell in love with it the first time he saw him in action, that his mom died when he was eight years old and he’s been a little fucked up ever since.

And he tells Stiles about how he has no idea what he wants to major in, about how that scares him, about how his parents are so loaded that if he wanted to he could live off of their money without ever working a day in his life, about how he doesn’t feel like he has the right to any of that money, though, because they’re not really his parents. About how he’s gotten past the anger issues and the abandonment issues but can’t ever seem to shake the feeling that he doesn’t belong.

Stiles looks at him for a minute, squinting like he’s trying to figure something out, then says “You’re gonna think I’m crazy, but just hear me out, okay?”

Jackson raises his eyebrows, but nods.

"Psychology," Stiles says, and yeah, Jackson thinks he’s crazy. "Seriously. I know I’ve only spent like, what, four hours total with you thus far, but you’ve done a really good job of dealing with my crazy ass. You’ve been patient, and kind, and absolutely non judging, and it just…it seems like you really care. Which, considering what a complete dick you say you used to be, is seriously impressive. And I’ve seen more therapists than I can count, and I always feel like the really good ones are the ones who’re a little screwed up themselves. Like, if they’re too perfect, they have no idea what they’re talking about or how to relate to you. But you’d understand, because you’ve been there. And you could help make sure other people don’t struggle with what you struggled with, you know?"

Jackson just stares. He’s completely baffled, because the idea has never even crossed his mind, but actually…it makes a lot of sense. 

"Sorry, I overstepped," Stiles says after it’s been quiet for a little too long. "I didn’t mean—"

"No," Jackson says, cutting him off. "You didn’t. I…it’s not terrible advice, actually."

"What a compliment, I’m honored," Stiles teases, grinning.

Jackson rolls his eyes. 

They get through the rest of the calculus review with the help of lots of snacks from the vending machine (Stiles’ treat, “as a thank you for saving my ass”) and finally part ways at around 4:00 AM, with the promise that they’ll see each other next week.

When Jackson gets back to his dorm, he writes himself a reminder in his phone to go see the advising office to learn about pursuing a Psychology degree. 

 

It becomes a thing. 

They spend their Sunday nights together, every week. Sometimes they listen to music, sometimes they talk, sometimes one of them brings their laptop and they watch a movie, sitting entirely too close so they can both see, pressed together from shoulder to knee. 

They never see each other outside of the laundry room, though. He doesn’t know Stiles’ room number, or his phone number, or even his last name. It’s weird, Jackson thinks, because Stiles is probably the best friend he’s made since he started college and they only see each other for a couple hours once a week, but it’s good. It works.

Until one Sunday, when Stiles doesn’t show up.

At first, Jackson figures maybe he’s just late, but after an hour he kind of starts to panic a little. Suddenly, not knowing how to contact Stiles seems insanely stupid because what if he’s gone? What if he never shows up again and that’s just the end of it? 

The thought of never seeing Stiles again makes him absolutely nauseous. He tries not to think about it as he folds his clothes and makes his way back to his room.

He spends the entire week on edge, struggling to keep himself from knocking on every door in the res hall until he finds Stiles.

 

When he walks into the laundry room on Sunday, though, Stiles is already there. He lets out a sigh of relief, the tension that had been building up all week melting away.

"Miss me?" Stiles asks, and Jackson’s not touching that one.

"Everything okay?" he asks by way of reply.

Stiles’ face falls. “Yeah, nothing major, I just…uh, I’ve been having some trouble sleeping. Nightmares, the whole nine.”

"What about?" Jackson asks, frowning. 

"Um. About a year ago—exactly a year from last Sunday, which is why I was MIA—one of my best friends died. Right in front of me. And I’d been doing okay, you know, I’d been coping, but once it hit the year mark—ever since then, every time I close my eyes I see it happening. Over and over again."

"Jesus, Stiles, I’m sorry," Jackson says, because what else can he say?

"Give me your phone," he adds after a moment of deliberation. Stiles raises a brow, but pulls it out of his pocket and hands it over.

Stiles’ lock screen is a picture of him and a gorgeous girl with dark, wavy hair and a beautiful smile. Something in him knows she’s the one who died, and his chest aches.

He goes to Stiles’ address book and adds his number, looks at the picture of Stiles and the girl one more time, then hands the phone back to Stiles.

"I’m almost always awake," Jackson says, hoping Stiles understands what he doesn’t have the courage to say.

The small smile Stiles gives him tells him that he does. “Thanks.”

 

They still don’t talk outside of the laundry room, except when Stiles can’t sleep. 

Stiles texts him once every few days, always around 3:00 in the morning, and always about completely random topics. Jackson wants to ask him how he’s doing sometimes, if it’s getting better or worse, but he gets that the point of talking to him is to get his mind off of the whole thing, so he listens to Stiles ramble on about his biology class and Dancing with the Stars and the hot nurse his dad just started dating.

Then one night, Stiles calls him crying, and Jackson regrets ever wishing they could talk about the dead best friend thing, because hearing Stiles cry is something he never wanted to experience.

He takes a deep breath, though, and says “Stiles, hey, talk to me.”

"It was my fault," Stiles says, quietly, breathlessly, and Jackson’s eyes go wide.

"The guy pulled a gun and I just—I panicked," Stiles continues. "Allison was so brave, though. God, she always was, she’s everything I wish I could be. It should have been me. I should have protected her."

Jackson’s chest feels like it’s going to implode. He’s afraid to speak, as if the wrong words will break Stiles. For all he knows, they could.

"I watched my parents die when I was four," he says, hoping to God it comes off as being relatable and not an attempt to make himself the center of attention.

"Jesus, I can’t even imagine," Stiles says, then huffs out a laugh. "Honestly, the two of us have more emotional baggage than anyone I’ve ever seen."

_That’s why we’re so good together,_ Jackson thinks, but he just forces a laugh and says “Hey, speaking of, guess who officially declared a major this morning?”

"No way, man, that’s awesome," Stiles says, and he sounds so genuinely excited despite having been crying less than five minutes ago. "What’d you choose?"

"Psychology," Jackson says, like it should be obvious.

"You’re something else, Whittemore," Stiles says, and Jackson can hear the smile in his voice.

They talk about how five years from now they’ll be like Jack Crawford and Hannibal (the not evil version, of course) using their combined therapist/detective powers to make the world a better place until they both fall asleep, still on the phone.

 

That Sunday, as soon as Stiles walks into the laundry room, he pulls Jackson into a bone-crushing hug.

"You’re a really good friend, dude," he mumbles into Jackson’s shoulder.

It’s a split-second decision. As soon as the words come out of Stiles’ mouth, Jackson thinks, no. He doesn’t want to just be Stiles’ friend. Not if he can help it, anyway.

So he musters up all the courage he has and pulls back from the hug just far enough so that he can kiss Stiles.

Stiles doesn’t exactly reciprocate, which terrifies Jackson, and as they pull away he’s got his “I’m so sorry” speech ready, but Stiles is talking before Jackson gets a chance to.

"Oh my god, _finally,_ ” he says frantically. “Now I can stop staying up until 2:00 AM just so I can see you, thank god, it was _killing me,_ Jackson.”

Jackson snorts. “You’ve only been coming for me this whole time?”

"Yes, you idiot," Stiles says fondly. "There is literally no one that actually enjoys doing laundry in the middle of the night other than you."

Jackson just grins and kisses him again, and this time Stiles is more than enthusiastic. 

 

Once they start dating, Jackson starts doing Stiles’ laundry for him to make up for “reeling him in with his pretty face and hindering his ability to get a good night’s sleep on Sunday nights,” as Stiles puts it. 

Jackson doesn’t mind. He’s happy to have his quiet nights back, now that he can see Stiles whenever he wants. And besides, this way he can “accidentally” slip some of Stiles’ t-shirts into his own basket. 

One night, when he’s just about done folding everything, he gets three consecutive texts from Stiles.

_Remember that episode of HIMYM where Ted taught his kids that nothing good happens after 2 AM?_

_Well, he was wrong. Because after 2 AM is when I found yoooou :)_

_Hurry up and get your cute ass back here. I’m a little drunk and I wanna cuddle._

Jackson shakes his head, chuckling, and makes his way back to Stiles’ dorm.


End file.
